


Roles Reversed

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2018 [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: And Alfred loves his son, Bruce really loves his butler dad, Caretaking, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Young Bruce, taking care of somebody, worrying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 04:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15987950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: A young Bruce worries and takes care of Alfred while he's sick.





	Roles Reversed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [androbeaurepaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/androbeaurepaire/gifts).



> A little something I wrote for Andro based on these wonderful drawings [here](http://androbeaurepaire.tumblr.com/post/178072740294/androbeaurepaire-concept-alfred-is-sick-with).
> 
> Also fills the "taking care of somebody" square on my bingo card. 
> 
> Happy reading :)

Lethargy weighs Alfred down even after a day of rest. He wakes during the night, body sore and head heavy, unsure what woke him, teetering on the cusp of going back to sleep. A dryness in his mouth makes itself known, the horrid taste of dehydration demanding water. Alfred sits up, rubbing at his eyes. The curtains aren’t closed over the window so moonlight shines in, just enough for him to find the glass on his bedside table without knocking it over.

The water feels chilled to his feverish body; Alfred drinks it greedily. When the glass is empty, his thirst is still not quenched. He regrets drinking so quickly, wishes he had savoured it even a little, tricked his brain into thinking he’d had more than there was.

“I’ll get you some more.”

Alfred startles at the young voice that pipes up from the end of his bed. Bruce is already crawling to the edge of the mattress, knees and elbows bumping over Alfred’s legs. He disappears over the side then bounces up a moment later beside Alfred’s head. His hair is flat on one side, sticking up wildly, and he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

Alfred’s throat feels tacky; he has to clear it before he can speak. “What on earth are you doing in here?” he asks with hoarse bewilderment.

“Taking care of you,” Bruce says. He bites at his thumb, staring at Alfred with wide blue eyes. “Can I have your glass please? I promise I’ll be careful, I didn’t spill any filling it up last time.”

Alfred doesn’t remember his young charge bringing him a new glass of water, he doesn’t even remember drinking all of the one he brought with him when he came to bed. However long ago that was. The sun’s light had been fading from the sky, Master Bruce had assured Alfred he wouldn’t get up to any mischief if Alfred retired to his room to rest for a short time. He hadn’t actually meant to sleep, let alone for so long.

“I didn’t feed you dinner,” he realises. He feels awful about it. Thomas and Martha trusted him to take care of their child and as soon as Alfred felt a bit under the weather he’d slipped up.

“It’s okay,” Bruce says, “I made a sandwich.”

A sandwich? Hardly an acceptable dinner for a growing boy. And then Alfred remembers that he always uses the sharp knives to cut sandwiches, and Bruce would have copied what he’s seen Alfred do a thousand times. He sits up straighter, a sense of urgency bringing energy to his exhausted body.

“You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”

“No, I was careful.” Bruce holds out his unblemished, un-bandaged hands for Alfred’s inspection. “See?”

Some of the panic in Alfred’s chest eases. “Good,” he says, voice rough. There’s a tickle in his throat# and he coughs to clear it, but the cough irritates his chest and he ends up bent over, gripped in a coughing fit.

Bruce grabs the glass and scampers to the bathroom to refill it. He comes back and holds it out, anxiously biting his lip while he waits for Alfred to stop coughing.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Alfred croaks out when his coughs have eased. His hand shakes when he takes the glass of water. He feels exhausted again, drained, and sags back against his pillow.

“I got your a cloth too,” Bruce says, “for your fever.”

Alfred smiles a little. He’s not sure his fever is so bad he needs a cool cloth to bring it down, but how could he possibly say no to such a thoughtful gesture?

“That sounds lovely.”

Bruce crawls back onto the bed. He lays the washcloth over Alfred’s brow then sits back on his heels by Alfred’s knees. “You should go back to sleep,” he says seriously. His tone makes him sound like Thomas, that confident, “listen to me I’m a doctor” voice he’d use sometimes. But his anxious hovering is all Martha.

Alfred pats Bruce’s leg. “I’ll be alright, Master Bruce. You should go to bed and get some rest yourself.”

“Okay,” Bruce says without moving. He sits there staring at Alfred in the semi-darkness, like one of the gargoyles guarding Gotham city. As though he can scare the virus out of Alfred if he keeps watch long enough.

Alfred shakes his head fondly. He breaks the staring contest by letting his eyes fall shut. If it was any other time, if his head was a little less sore and his eyes not so weary, he would argue the point, maybe even get up and tuck Bruce into bed himself. But tonight he is ill and does not have the energy to battle the Wayne stubbornness Bruce inhabited in spades.

“Are you sleeping?” Bruce whispers a moment later.

“Yes.”

“Good. Doctor Leslie says sleep is the best medicine.”

The mattress bounces a little as Bruce shifts. Alfred feels a small hand against his forehead a moment later, adjusting the cloth that slipped down when he shook his head. Alfred remembers all the times he’s done the same thing for his small charge, fussing over the boy when he was struck down by illness or injury.

“Goodnight, Alfred,” Bruce whispers.

Alfred is already half-asleep, but he summons enough energy to murmur, “Goodnight, Master Bruce.”

—

The morning sun is much too bright. Its rays fall across the bed, warming Alfred’s already overheated body even more. It makes it impossible to go back to sleep even though fatigue is still heavy throughout his body. It seems the flu is determined to keep him down for another day at least. Alfred frowns up at the ceiling. That just won’t do, he has too much to do running the household. Not to mention taking care of his eight-year-old charge.

Aches and pains make themselves known when Alfred sits up. He grimaces as he rubs his aching head. Bruce is still there, curled up at the end of the bed. Alfred tries not to wake him as he pushes back the covers and gets out of bed. He takes the glass on the bedside table with him to the bathroom and refills it after he has relieved himself. When he steps back into the bedroom, Bruce is sitting up, frowning as he rubs sleep from his eyes.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks. Demands, really. Alfred might have scolded him for the tone if he didn’t know it came from a place of caring.

“I’m feeling much better today,” Alfred says. He puts his water down and begins making the bed.

Bruce grabs the covers and pulls them back, clutching them tightly so Alfred can’t pull them back without playing tug-o’-war. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You still have a fever, you should be in bed.”

“I assure you, Master Bruce, I am perfectly-“

The words are unfortunately not assuring because at that point Alfred breaks off into a coughing fit. It saps his strength and he sinks down onto the edge of the bed. Bruce crosses his little arms and frowns at him, brows scrunched into an approximation of a glare.

“Please get back in bed,” he says, manners only adding to his completely serious tone.

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me make a cup of tea first?”

“No.” Bruce hops off the bed. “I’ll make tea for you.”

Alfred has no chance to protest that he shouldn’t be using the stove before Bruce has disappeared out of the room. Only a second later his head pops around the doorway to add, “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful, I promise!”

Waiting for Bruce to come back is agonising. Alfred leans back against his pillows and tries not to think about all the ways an eight-year-old unsupervised in the kitchen could go wrong. There are many, each worse than the last. Five minutes tick by and Alfred is just deciding he should get up and make sure both Bruce and the kitchen are still in one piece when the boy returns. He walks slowly, carefully holding a mug in both hands.

“Here you go,” he says.

“Thank you,” Alfred replies, taking the mug. The tea is hot and he blows to cool it before taking a sip. It’s not quite strong enough, with a touch too much milk, but Alfred isn’t going to tell Bruce that. Instead he smiles at the expectant boy and says, “It’s perfect.”

Bruce smiles widely. He clambers back onto the bed and sits cross-legged beside Alfred. “Are you going to sleep more?” he asks. “Or I could read you a story. Or, um, I could make you soup. Do you want soup?”

Alfred chuckles. “Thank you, dear boy, but right now I will be content with just your company.”

And the peace of mind that Bruce is by his side instead of getting into trouble somewhere else in the Manor or getting hurt doing things that an eight-year-old should have an adult doing for him.

“Okay,” Bruce says. “But then you should sleep more. And when you wake up I can make you soup.”

Alfred dearly hopes that the next time he wakes up he’ll be well enough to make his own soup. But he just nods. If taking care of him makes Bruce feel better, he’s certainly not going to complain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated :) You can also find me on tumblr [here](http://tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


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